Dirty Pair
by Kaizen Kitty
Summary: by Carver Edlund. published posthumously (A compilation of the parts Edlund left out, since he feared it would make the Winchester brothers unsympathetic.) Wincest, family drama, schmoop.
1. Dream Brother

**(Title):** Dirty Pair

by Carver Edlund

published posthumously

(A compilation of the parts Edlund left out, since he feared it would make the Winchester brothers unsympathetic.)

**A/N: **

**Written by Kaizen Kitty**

**Betaread by Lux Hart**

**Title in reference to the scifi anime "Dirty Pair" (original run July to December 1985, later adapted to an animated film called "Project Eden" released 1987). Focuses on two busty Asian beauties who solve crimes, but are publicly known to leave a trail of destruction behind everywhere they go – hence the nickname.**

* * *

**(Title):** Dream Brother

**1995**

It was dark, only the neon motel sign lighting up the road around them, throwing shadows over the sleek black Chevrolet Impala, a sixties model. Not the safest ride to be carrying his boys in, having no seatbelts nor airbags, but John didn't care. The car had sentimental value to him. As long as he didn't violate the speed limit, his boys would be fine. They faced greater dangers than the car could ever pose, daily. Like the danger they had faced tonight.

For the first time, Dean had played a part in it, and he hadn't let John down. No, John had all the reason to be proud of his boy, his little soldier. Even though Dean was already sixteen and close to his father in height, John couldn't help but see the little kid in him. It was like watching a person and seeing their life unfold before your very own eyes: he saw Dean as a baby, as a child, and now as a young man – all at one glance. It frightened John, because he knew he was growing old. And his boys were not ready yet, not ready to know all the secrets and tricks of the trade. He vowed to keep them alive, if it was the last thing he did.

John spoke to the manager and got their stuff inside, rubbing himself warm against the chilly night air. He wanted to lock the car when he noticed his other son, Sam, sitting in the backseat, headphones on. John's shoulders sank under the added weight of dread, as he cursed the fact that Sam hit puberty a year early, turning from a difficult kid to a downright nasty one. The only one who still could reason with him was Dean, but they were fighting now – neither brother wanting to even see the other. John took a few steps toward the car, then turned, thinking better of it.

"Dean?"

He needn't say more. The older Winchesters exchanged a look, then turned their eyes on the vehicle. Dean hugged his canvas jacket closer, bit his lower lip, and ground out a tight-lipped "yes Sir", before he stumbled over the parking lot.

* * *

The parking lot was cold and wet from the rain, but inside the car was warm and dry, not five minutes ago the engine had still been running, so that was no surprise. Sam sitting huddled up on the backseat, knees to his chest and headphones over his ears was no surprise either, it happened all too damn often lately. Not to mention they were Dean's headphones – Dean's headphones, Dean's portable cassette recorder, and Dean's tapes. It was the only thing Dad had gotten Dean for his fifteenth birthday, and now he was forced to share. How fucking fantastic. And then Sam would bitch about how he didn't like the songs, and that his older brother had zero taste in music. Buy your own fucking tapes. Of course that was impossible, because Sammy here was only twelve years old, too young to get a job, and too frickin stupid to know how to hustle.

Dean tried keeping his temper down as he scooted closer to his brother, feeling the leather squeak under his behind.

"What're you listening to?"

Sam just glared at him, nothing else, oh yeah besides crossing his arms to show that he was 'mad'.

"Sammy, don't be like this. Dad wants you out of the car, it's time to sleep."

Sam settled down firmer, curling his toes around the front seat and pushing himself into the backrest. Dean had half the heart to storm out of there and tell his father he could go to hell. That is what he would've done, if not for the rain. It fell down in buckets, and all Dean could think of was that they'd left the protective gear back in the trunk, and he'd probably get soaked by the time he'd reach that. So he leaned back and tried making himself comfortable, cursing he fact that right now, he could be sleeping in a bed. A real, warm bed with fluffy covers and a new mattress – this was one of the better motels they had stayed in over the years. Dean barely had his eyes closed when he heard a muffled sound beside him, Sam. His little brother had switched the cassette recorder off, and let the headphones slide down to his neck, shifting to see Dean better.

"Why are you still here?"

Annoying little bastard. Oh, Dean was angry now. He was really, really pissed. In a shaky jerky motion, Dean sat up straight, instantly noticing how cold it had become. Even fully clothed, his limbs shivered.

"Obviously not for the pleasant company."

Sam huffed, rolling closer to the window, back turned on Dean. His breath clouded white and fogged up the window pane. Sam was shaking.

"Leave me alone," he said with little conviction.

It was ice cold inside the car, and the rain kept pattering on the hood, echoing. All their bags, all their cloths and jackets, everything was in the trunk, and part of it in the motel too. It was going to be a rough night, that Dean knew for sure. Especially if this jackass next to him wouldn't keep his yap shut.

"I'll keep watch on the car. Just go, go to dad Dean, he got a nice room this time, right?"

Almost like Sam expected him to answer that question, or to talk to him, or something. Sweet god of Jesus.

"Do you hear me talking?"

The way Sammy stared back, puppy dog eyes under that overgrown fringe, acting all innocent. Dean wanted to hurl something at him, only there was nothing nearby to grab, and the distance was too small.

"No," said Sam.

"Then shut up."

It was quiet after that, quiet for a long time. The rain had turned to a little drizzle and the bar by the motel got closed, as the customers walked out, covering their heads with their hands. Dean looked over at his brother, who sat up wide awake, limply holding the recorder in his palms.

"Okay, we're making a run for it. Last one at the motel is a wuss."

Dean nearly locked the Impala before he noticed Sam wasn't following. He pulled the door open.

"Sam! Come on, I'm waiting for you."

"I'm not going,"

"Wuss."

"I'm not a wuss! I just can't. I can't spend a whole night in the same room with that man."

Dean blinked. Sam was reaching whole new levels of bitchiness, if that was even possible. It kept on drizzling over his forehead, matting his short dark hair, and drenching the backseat. Rain water slipped in Dean's eyes.

"By 'that man', I hope you mean Dad. But you really can't be talking about him like that. If I hear you say that one more time, I'll…"

"You'll what, Dean? Tell on me?"

The look in Sam's eyes was challenging, a sly little grin crept up the corners of his mouth.

"No, I have a better idea. Give me my cassette recorder."

* * *

"And you left him in the car?"

John rolled over to his nightstand, and turned on a lamp, with his free hand he kneaded his forehead, groaning. He sat up straight and looked his son up and down, while Dean got his jacket off and hung it over the radiator. Dean slipped out of his shoes and stalked inside the bathroom, still shivering from the cold. Moments later John heard the water run, a toothbrush being used, swish swashing rapidly over Dean's teeth. When Dean came back inside the room, he had stripped down to a tank top and boxers, and wordlessly, like a zombie, he picked out a bed and fell face down on it, not even covering himself.

John dimmed the light and stood up, throwing a worn leather jacket over his shoulders. He was getting Sammy back even if it meant by force. This was ridiculous, kids were supposed to be in bed by this time. He knew Sam would thank him later, once he grew up with no health defects. But then Dean lifted his sleepy head, and said

"No, I'll go."

And you had to hand it to him, Dean was a great kid, but there are some things you just can't do alone. John shook his head and tied his shoelaces, Dean insisted. In fifteen seconds Dean was dressed, all signs of fatigue on his face gone. John sighed, the things you could do at sixteen…

"Dad, I'll talk to him. You should sleep."

"You need your sleep too, son."

"Not as much as you need yours – I'm not driving."

Shadows played over the dark motel room, headlights from the rare passing car. It didn't seem right to John, that he was sitting here safe and sound while his boys were in the car, where it was cold and damp and freezing. Okay, maybe the temperature did not drop below zero, but it came damn well close to, he thought.

John didn't sleep all night, and when he came to the parking lot next thing in the morning, yellow sunlight sparkling in the many puddles, he finally breathed a sigh of relief. They lay cuddled up on the backseat, his boys, covered under blankets and rugs, a backpack under Dean's head. Sammy had his arms wrapped around his big brother's shoulders, and his head on Dean's chest. John snorted. If only they could be like this when they were awake, too, but he knew that was never going to happen. With teenaged boys, especially brothers, it was a lost cause. John yanked the car door open, and bounced into the driver's seat. Behind him he heard soft murmurs of the boys stirring, he looked over his shoulder, putting on the sternest face he could muster.

"Five minutes!"

Dean sat up awake, jolting Sammy up with him.

"Yes Sir!" said Dean, and immediately started packing the rugs. Sam just glared at John, knowing full well there was no emergency at all, that Dad was only making them do things because he could. John saw all of that reflected in Sam's eyes, and it frightened him.

"Get the cross state map out of the trunk, Dean. We're going to Pennsylvania."

"Yes Sir."

I'm only trying to discipline you boys for your own good, John thought, still watching Sam through the rearview mirror. Because if I don't discipline you, someone else will. That thought filled him with an even greater fear than Sam's growing perceptiveness, and once they were set and ready, John hit down on the gas pedal, releasing his frustration on the car. Dean hunched over the map, making sure not to crease or tear it, and Sam stared out the window, listening to Radiohead's "Creep" at a louder volume than the Led Zeppelin song John played. Why was a song like "Creep" on one of Dean's tapes?

* * *

**A/N: **

**Betaread by Lux Hart**

**Title in reference to a Jeff Buckley song from 1994**


	2. Black Hole Sun

**(Title):** Black Hole Sun

**location:** (nearby) Death Valley, California

**1997**

It was the summer of ninety-seven – hot, wet and swarming with mosquitoes. Both side windows of the Impala rolled down, dust flying in and coating everything in a golden hue. Sam squinted, keeping track of Dad's truck ahead.

"Next left, Dean," he bit through chapped lips and dry gums.

Soaked T-shirt sticking to his spine, and yet Sam felt completely dry on the inside: kernels of sand danced around his mouth. It was surprisingly tempting to let the car rock him to sleep. Sam shook his head again, blinking. Dean had turned into the bend. For miles and miles, they could see empty wasteland stretching out before them, and vibrating heat in the distance.

"Sam, hand me that water bottle, would ya?"

It was empty. They both groaned, gasping, and inhaling more dust.

"This hunt stinks," said Sam, to which Dean agreed.

"Yup, sucks balls."

The boys laughed. A glance that lasted just a little longer, before Dean focused on the road again, hands tense on the steering wheel. The small black speck was getting closer and closer, a billboard, a parking lot, a gas station…Texaco, modern and crowded, severely overpriced too. Dad wheeled them in, and Dean pulled up beside him, about ten yards away from the store.

Sam closed his eyes, deciding to make the most of it. They were supposed to wait out here, in the stifling sun, where even breathing was hard. His tired eyelids fell shut, occupying his mind with visions of vanilla ice cream, of soda drinks and fruit.

"Sam? You gotta snap out of it man,"

Something poked him in the side, Sam opened his eyes, slowly, carefully. He mumbled half-asleep

"Wha – , why?"

"Dad could be in danger. We must be on the ready, back him up."

Sam shook his head, he wanted to shout, to disagree. But found he didn't have the strength. He opened his mouth and nothing but a hoarse cough came from it, he tried again. The air was hot, oppressing, and unbearably dry. Dean's sweaty neck was the only wet thing around. Sam leaned into it.

"Sam?"

It was too late. Sam had lost consciousness, falling into Dean's arms. The poor kid was shivering. Dean touched his forehead – red hot. Oh man, now Dad really would be pissed. They were miles away from the nearest hospital, and what's worse, in the middle of a fucking job!

"Sam, Sammy? Wake up."

When nothing much happened, Dean pulled the keys out of the Impala, hooking an arm around Sam's waist.

"C'mon, we're gonna get you inside. See that shop? They got A/C in there."

Dean pointed, but it didn't register with Sam. Sam's eyes were still closed, his body limp against Dean's. When they climbed out of the car Sam buckled through his knees, falling, Dean grabbed him right before he hit the ground. Carrying Sam bridal style past the gas pumps, Dean got more than a couple of strange looks. But that didn't matter, cause someone held the door open for him, and they were inside, in the cool humid room. Thank God. He laid Sam down on the nearest bench, as a crowd gathered.

"Is he alright?"

Dean looked over his shoulder. Short bald man in overalls, about forty years of age and wearing thick rimmed glasses. "Steve Frank", the nametag read.

"No, of course not! Get me some towels, water and aspirin!"

Some minutes later Sam lay on a spare bed in the backroom, covered by blankets and a cool cloth on his forehead. Dean sat in a nearby chair, while John listened to Steve, nodding. With the condition Sam was in, they'd have to stay the night. The hunt was off, the monster got away, and they were stuck in the middle of nowhere, in some half-store-half-diner, not even a bed to sleep in. John went to check up on the Impala, and came back livid.

"You left the car with the windows rolled down," he said, rattling the keys in Dean's face.

"Sam was feeling very bad, and I…, well I…"

"You what? You didn't think again, did you?"

John clenched his fists, pacing up and down the small stretch of corridor.

"Dean, this is happening way too often lately. Ever since you dropped school. What's wrong with you? You let Sam get a sunstroke, you leave the car open and unattended, begging for it to be stolen. Not to mention that incident back in Sacramento,"

The words trapped inside John's throat as he dropped into a chair, keeping his eyes on Dean. And Dean, Dean would have given anything not to have his father look at him like that, because there was something worse than Dad's anger, worse than any punishment Dad could give. Dean tucked some shoelaces inside his sneakers, which had once been white. He heard his father sigh, then talk again, softer, this time – as if he was approaching a wounded bird and meant not to trample on it.

"It doesn't bother me if you see older…people,"

There was a discreet pause between older and people, which told Dean enough. That it did bother John, that it bothered him a lot, actually, bothered him more than he could possibly convey. And the fact that he didn't outright forbid it, that he laid the choice into Dean's own hands, that tore Dean up even more.

"Just, don't do it for money, okay?"

* * *

"Hey, do you remember Death Valley?" Dean asked one day.

Sam looked at him curiously, craning his neck to the left. An arm of Sam's rested just above the back of Dean's seat.

"Yeah, I was sick,"

"Damn right you were sick," Dean grinned at the road, inhaling the scent of fresh morning grass and motor oil.

Sam moved his arm away, folding both in front of his chest. He suddenly felt a chill run through his bones, remembering that night.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

Dean shrugged.

"Maybe," he said, sweeping his eyes over Sam then back on the road again. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"What?"

Sam's eyes went wide, he probed deeper inside the depths of his memory, coming up with nothing. Then he frowned, turning all of his attention to the left.

"Dean, what did you have me do? Did you prank me?"

Instead of an answer, Dean's body shook with laughter, and then with the usual smug grin and playful eyes he said

"Why don't I show you?", and snapped his fingers.

Before his very own eyes, Dean Winchester transformed into the Trickster, who winked, and everything went black. Sam woke up in the backroom of a petrol station, as his fourteen-year-old self.

"Hey."

It was Dean, eighteen-year-old Dean. He was back, back in Death Valley, on a squeaky old mattress. Sam felt the wet cloth fall off and into his lap.

"Hey," he murmured, wondering where Dad was.

He surely remembered Dad being there. The hunt had gone awry, all because of Sam. Because he'd saved up on water, and bought a Garbage tape instead. But he couldn't spot Dad anywhere…it was just him and Dean, alone in the dark storage room. Dean leaned over to turn the radio louder, which was stuck on an annoying station of Country music. Sam grimaced.

"Really?"

"The only other choice is Top 40," said Dean, making a face.

"Well put that instead."

Dean's look of mock shock never failed to make Sam laugh. He crept closer to the radio and fiddled with the buttons. It came rushing back to him – the feel of the display under his fingertips, the static sound. Sam tuned in the next channel, hearing that deep voice hum

"This is Mad River Radio, brought to you from the hottest plains of Nevada, oowee, what a lovely night we have on our hands!"

Dean cracked a laugh at the host's expense and chucked his soda can in the bin, a reflex Sam hadn't seen him do in a long time. Open-mouthed, Sam watched the speakers vibrate. It was exactly the same, just like last time. He remembered every single word.

"And number one, the song you've all been waiting for, ladies and gents, here's your one and only: Meredith Brooks!"

An applause tape ran through the ether, cut short by the string of two guitars, vaguely reminiscent of a classic rock tune. Dean bobbed his head to the beat.

"That's not bad," he said, scooting closer.

All Sam could do was stare at him. When the chorus came along Dean burst out in laughter. Keeping both hands on his stomach, and the tears from his eyes.

"Sammy, this song is about you!"

Dean began to sing along, as best as he could, which was frighteningly good… All the while wiggling his eyebrows Johnny Bravo style, and making funny faces. The instrumental part came on, and Dean fell silent, smirking.

"Dean, please,"

But relentlessly, his older brother ploughed on, inserting a dirty word or two, while having the time of his life. When Sam reached for the radio, his wrist got snatched, and Sam looked straight into the face of Dean, who fell over the bed, on top of him. Sam bit his lip. This was so stupid, he couldn't believe it was happening all over again. And then Dean sung the bridge, and Sam couldn't help himself. He let the word slip past his lips.

"Jerk."

Dean tapped his nose affectionately, close enough that his breath ghosted over Sam's face.

"Bitch."

* * *

"Sam? Hey, Sam, wake up."

Sam's eyes flickered open, and he stretched painfully, clutching his wounded shoulder. He found himself lying on the backseat of the Impala, fully clothed and covered by his own canvas jacket. Dean's head poked out the front seat, a rare smile on his worn face. Sam was back in 2009, April… He sat up straight, fingering the buttons of his shirt. Had it been a dream? A very vivid, very real dream to say the least… Sam didn't usually have those. Especially when it came to Death Valley – he hadn't even thought of that hunt in years.

Dean started the car, and they got on the road, the Impala grunting and rocking underneath. The radio was dead, emitting nothing but soft static sound. Dean cursed, then started checking the box for tapes, eyes locked on the road. A hand closed in on Dean's right one, smoothing over it and guiding it back to the steering wheel, where it belonged. Dean shot him a look, Sam smiled. He leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes and sang.

"I hate the world today. You're so good to me, I know, but I can't change. Tried to tell you, but you look at me like maybe, I'm an angel underneath, innocent and sweet,"

"What's gotten into you?" said Dean, barely suppressing his laughter.

Yup, it definitely had been a dream, a good one for once. Sam shrugged, smiling back at his brother and picking up the song where he'd left off.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Betaread by Lux Hart**

**Title in reference to Soundgarden's 1994 song**

**Sam's final lines are from the lyrics to Meredith Brook's song "Bitch" (1997), not written by me.**


	3. Scar Tissue

**(Title):** Scar Tissue

**locations:** Tacoma, Washington

Atache Software Foundations: Baltimore, Maryland

**1999**

"So, what are we hunting?" John spoke into the handset wedged between his ear and shoulder.

Twirling the cord around his fingers, he listened, snuggled in the motel armchair with a blanket over his legs. John had the curtains down and the lights out, his hand ghosted over a loaded pistol underneath the blanket. Eyes on the door, and every now and again on the two beds.

"Come again?"

Silence in the room, just the rattling voice on the other end, making John sigh.

"Yes yes, I'm listening. But really, the millenium bug…have you been drinking?"

John held the speaker away from his ear. Words like fuck and hell filled the room, at which Dean's lips curved up. When the rattling quieted, John brought the headset back to his ear.

"You think it's a ghost?"

He held his tongue, leaning back in his chair, in that warm padded armchair. John's head lulled forward, his eyelids squeezing shut.

"Yes, basic salt and burn Bobby, got it."

Then he slammed the phone back on the hook and dozed off, not noticing Dean tiptoe out of bed…

* * *

Sam blinked. It was still dark in the room, well sort of – cold colors washed off the walls with every passing minute, and opening his eyes he saw the grainy gray ceiling tumble down upon him. He rubbed his eyes to lessen the effect, but only magnified the pain in his shoulder blades, pin-pointed and deep, exactly in the spots Dean had kicked him yesterday. Sam winced, sat up and glared at the other bed.

"..'For training' – my ass."

Then he heard his dad snore – the greasy unshaved mess Dad was, lodged in that tiny armchair and covered in maps. It served him right, Sam supposed. His own damn fault for cheaping out on rooms. Sam rolled back under the covers and tried to sleep, but couldn't make much of it. The high pitched hum of the heater, the noisy street outside, and oh yeah: Dad, snoring. In one last attempt Sam pulled the blanket over his ears. Then he gave up and resorted to watching the ceiling, pretending he could see shapes and figures in it, like on a giant TV screen.

A key slid inside the door. Sam sat up straight, senses on full alert. He looked around the room. Both Dad and Dean hadn't stirred. The handle went down with a low hiss. Sam reached under his pillow, and with trembling hands, drew his Smith & Wesson 4506. The door opened, Sam aimed to fire, and…

"Brought you some breakfast."

In the door frame stood Dean in his dark green parka, transparent grocer's bags in either hand. "Catch," he said, and a packet of something came flying at Sam. As it skidded off his knee and under the sheets, Sam took a better look at it – a protein bar. He raised an eyebrow as Dean fussed around the room.

"So you were, what, gone the whole night?"

"Nah, jus woke up early."

Dean cracked half a smile before shoving the duffel bags off his bed. Carefully, he lifted the maps off Dad and folded them, one by one. Sam examined the protein bar. It contained raisins and dried apple. He sniffed at it, before taking a bite.

"You're in a good mood today," said Sam, warily.

Two cans of Red Bull were produced on the motel table. Dean drank them both. He let out a series of burps, then went on packing the rest of his stuff. All with an idiotic American smile slapped on, and Sam couldn't help but wonder. He walked over and touched Dean's mattress. It was stone cold, not even a dent in the pillow to prove Dean had lain there. Then Dean came round and gave him a clap on the shoulder, right where it hurt.

"Come on Sammy, pack your shit. We're leaving this hell hole!"

That only meant one thing – another hunt. Which this time Dean had planned with Dad, in secret. Big surprise. Sam didn't bother arguing. It was no use. Instead he boldly pushed past Dean, to his own bed, and started chucking things inside a duffel. Dad woke up. Sam pulled the zipper down his jacket, before shoving it inside a plastic bag. Loud, rapid, cracking sounds. No mercy for the man in the armchair, who stretched and moaned as if bewildered, no mercy at all. His classmates were on Christmas break – this was what the Holidays looked like for Sam.

* * *

He loaded his gun and fired. Fired, fired again. Reached inside his parka for more ammunition. No more rock salt. Dean blanched. In the dimmed computer lab he sat on the floor, protected by a table. Emergency light came on. He grit his teeth and got a hold of himself, creeping soundlessly over the floor, avoiding electric cables and corpses. The shotgun pressed into his back. A scream, shrill and loud filled his ears. Then nothing but dead silence.

"Melody…"

Dean closed his eyes to forget. Forget the way her hair fell, forget the gloss of her smile, and the way her secretary heels went click-clack over polished floors. He couldn't forget the way her skin felt, delicate, soft under his own callused hands. He couldn't.

"Big boys don't cry."

"Huh?"

"Just saying, kid. If you cry at every little instance, you won't last long. Not in this line of duty."

They had run into Jack by accident. Once their plane arrived in Baltimore, the Winchesters found they weren't the only hunters there. The Millennium Bug, is a big thing after all, not quite easy to catch. And Jack had already done some research in the matter. Enough to know there was no body, nothing to burn. John decided to collaborate. He was off at the mainframe now, with Sam, attempting to hack into the system. "Just blow up the building," Jack had said. "These passwords are fire-proof – you'll never get in." But John disagreed, he wouldn't be John if he did agree. So now they were here, in the trenches, while John fought his own war upstairs. Dean spit out some saliva, to wetten his lower lip. Jack clapped him on the back.

"Come on, move. The more you move, the less tired you'll get."

He pulled Dean along by the arm, over blood and shattered glass and bits and goo.

"We're almost there."

Dean hardly believed him. His head was a mess, dazed and filled with useless images of people. A neat, tidy office, rotating doors, security men, office workers, and right between it all was Melody. Dean choked another tear back. His knees scraped over the floor, and the pounding blood in his ears reached another level. He wanted to shout. Long, coarse, and loud. Now they were all gone, and it was his fault, all his stupid goddamn fault. Jack tapped his shoulder.

"Hey, are you with me?"

"No." … "Wait, I mean yes." … "Yes."

Jack watched him swallow thickly. Watched him with those patient blue eyes, watched him carefully. Then Jack turned and they were moving once again, down the corridor, shotguns prodding in their sides, on their hands and knees over stained, mottled floors. Dean breathed through his mouth to avoid the stench. It still came through and left him nauseous. They reached the stairs, Jack pushed the door open and ordered Dean down, "Go," he said. "Go as fast as you can. Get away from here."

And Dean ran. He skidded down the staircase, leaping. Faster, faster, like a madman Dean ran down the building. There were no bodies here, no blood, nor lingering stench. Just cool air coming off the bricks, the clinical scent of dried concrete. Dean stopped when he realized. No footsteps came after him.

"Jack!"

He turned his head up, at the winding staircase. And heard gunshots. Gunshots. Rock salt. Oh no.

When he sped up the stairs it was already late. It took him more time to go up than down, and he'd already covered about ten floors. He pushed the door to the stair shaft open, Jack's lifeless body in his hands. When they reached the lobby, Dean was crying. He could see his tears reflecting the lamplight on Jack's face. Big boys don't cry, he told himself, over and over again. It didn't help. He set Jack down on the curb, and sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Any passerby would've thought them two friends, binge drinking. Certainly not an uncommon sight, not this time of the year. Jack's Armitron watch, it ticked away the minutes to midnight. Then fireworks went off, painting the sky a bright red, dull, turning gray. And nothing happened. No bug invasion, no rapid stream of deaths, only cheers of people further up town. So they did it, Dean thought. No, we did it. He looked down at Jack's curly head, rested peacefully in the crook of his shoulder. He stroked those curls away, stroked the sinewy, stubbled cheeks. Then he closed his eyes and kissed him, holding him close, in a dear embrace.

"Happy New Year"

* * *

They buried Jack next thing in the morning, after salting and burning his corpse. A grave was erected from old windshield wipers and some stones. John hurried to leave the place, but Dean stayed, hovering over the patch of earth dug right under a sturdy pine tree. Sam opened his pocket knife.

"You know, if you want to mark the tree,"

"Why would I want that?"

"Um, so you could come back some day… Those wipers won't keep, not for long."

"I know."

"So, …"

But Dean pushed Sam's outstretched arm away, leaving the knife blade open, inside Sam's palm. He followed John up the dirt road, back to the rental car, which would need a good scrub to get all that blood off. Sam took a moment to inhale a breath of fresh pine scent, reveling in its spice. Well, if Dean didn't want to…he shrugged. The knife still lay open, blade in his palm. Sam took a few steps and leaned in, applying knife to bark.

There. Minutes later he was done. John called over, asked what took him so long.

"I'm coming!" said Sam, hurrying uphill, the knife closed and fixed inside his trousers.

Dean never returned to Jack's grave. But if he had, he would've found a dismal surprise there waiting for him. Four letters carved inside that tree, four letters and a heart encircled it. DW + JK.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Title in reference to the 1999 Red Hot Chilli Peppers song "Scar Tissue"**


End file.
